Where has the writing gone?
Though not admirable, there used to be a writing that acted as a medium for what one comfortably called creative expression. And that came out of a steady graph of crests and troughs that the mind traveled through.
Is it strange that I find writing the most elusive activity these days? Like a little grey butterfly that flits about in a garden when I look out the window and disappears when I walk out to take a closer look?
I have learnt to never sit down saying, “Today, I will write” because I will not write that day. Or the three days that follow it.
Because today, I am not a still person. There might be rises and dips in the graph of being, but the writing has gone, however little it used to be.

So
Today, I will not write.
Today, I will begin learning to just be.